The String of Pearls (1850), p. 298

admitted a man who glanced around him, and then, without a word, backed out again, looking rather pale. Todd did not hear him mutter to himself, as he
reached the street—
"Sir Richard will be frantic at this. I must post off to him at once, and let him know that it was none of our faults. What an awkward affair to be sure."

CHAPTER LXV.
A MOONLIGHT VISIT TO ST. DUNSTAN'S VAULTS.

For the remainder of that day Todd was scarcely visible, so we will leave him to his occupation, which was that of packing up valuables, while we take a I
peep at a very solemn hour indeed at old St. Dunstan's Church. The two figures on the outside of the ancient edifice had struck with their clubs the sonorous metal, and the hour of two had been proclaimed to such of the inhabitants of the vicinity who had the misfortune to be awake to hear it. The watchman at the gate of the Temple woke up and said "past six," while another watchman, who was snugly ensconced in a box at the corner of Chancery Lane, answered that it was "four o'clock and a rainy morning." Now it was neither four o'clock nor a rainy morning—for the sky, although by no means entirely destitute of clouds,
was of that speckled clearness which allows the little stars to pass out at all sorts of odd crevices, like young beauties through the jalousies of some Spanish Castle.
Themoon, too, had, considering all things, a pretty good time of it, for the clouds were not dense enough to hide her face, and when behind them, she only looked like some young bride, with the faint covering of bashful blonde before her radiant countenance. And at times, too, she would peep out at some break in that veil with such a blaze of silvery beauty as was dazzling to behold, and quite stopped the few passengers who were in the streets at that lone hour.
"Look," said one of four gentlemen, who were walking towards Temple Bar from the Strand. "Look! Is not that lovely?"
"Yes," said another. "A million fires are out in London now, and one can see the blue sky as it was seen when—"
"Wild in the woods the painted savage ran."
"But, after all," said another, "I prefer good broad cloth to red ochre. What say you, Sir Richard?"
"I am of your lordship's opinion," said Sir Richard Blunt, who was one of the party of four: I certainly think we have gained something by not being Ancient
Britons any longer than was absolutely necessary. This is, in truth, a most splendid night."
"It is—it is," they all said.
By this time, strolling along in an independent sort of fashion, they had reached Temple Bar, and then Sir Richard, bowing to the one who had not yet
made any sort of remark, said—
"Mr. Villimay, you have not forgotten the keys?"
"Oh no, Sir Richard; oh no."
"Then, gentlemen, we are very near our place of destination. It will be advisable that we look about us, and use the utmost precaution, to be sure that we
are not watched by any one."
"Yes—yes," saidt he other. " You will be the best judge of that Sir Richard; with your tact, you will be able to come to a conclusion upon that subject much
better than we can."
Sir Richard Blunt made a slight kind of bow in acknowledgment of the compliment to his tact, and then, while what we may call the main body waited under the arch of Temple Bar, he advanced alone into Fleet Street. After advancing for a short distance, he took from his pocket a small silver whistle, and produced upon it a peculiar thrilling note. In a moment a tall man, with a